Pretty Things
by TolkienScholar
Summary: Oneshot. As he looks at the marigolds planted around the house, Lucas thinks back to how his Margaret always liked pretty things. But as usual, it's Mark who's able to sum up just what they're both feeling.


**Tag to Ep. 1x16: "The Sheridan Story."**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: I do not own** _ **The Rifleman**_ **. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 _"A man as big as you, raisin' posies 'round the porch."_

Lucas turned and looked back at Blandon, hammering away at the broken bedframe. He'd smiled at the decrepit old Confederate's characterization of him, hiding the twist of pain in his gut. They weren't his flowers, after all. Even though Margaret hadn't planted these, had never even lived in the New Mexico ranch house, they still were and always would be hers.

The woodpile stood waiting by the barn door, but Lucas's boots carried him in the opposite direction, to where the little row of marigolds stood lining the porch, their oranges and yellows flaming like little bursts of sunset. Suddenly, the colors began to shift and blur before his eyes as tears long suppressed welled up.

It had been a long time since he'd stopped weeping over Margaret. There was a time for mourning, he'd told himself, and a time to put it away and start living again, for his boy if not for himself. Mark needed a Pa who was strong. So though the flowers were planted and the portrait of her still stood on the little table, Lucas's tears were never allowed to fall.

But there were moments. Moments like this when the tiniest of things would bring her back to him, fresh and bright and alive as the day he'd married her. He could see her now through the watery haze, dark-haired and petite, kneeling and plucking the weeds from among the marigolds with her soft, white hands.

 _"You've got your rifle, Lucas,"_ she'd said, her voice light with laughter. _"Let me have my marigolds."_

"Anything for you, Maggie," he whispered into the silence.

"Pa?"

Lucas blinked hard, and the hazy figure resolved itself into the form of his ten-year-old son, kneeling down to pull weeds. The dark hair was the same, and the eyes staring anxiously up at him were hers, but the woman was gone.

Lucas shook his head to clear it and forced a smile. "Sorry, son. I was a million miles away for a minute."

The concern didn't leave Mark's eyes; the smile wasn't fooling him. "You were thinkin' about Ma, weren't you?" he asked. He got to his feet and brushed the dirt off his knees.

"Yes, I was, son." Lucas put a hand on Mark's shoulder.

"I know. I been thinkin' about her, too."

"You have?"

"Uh-huh. Mr. Blandon said somethin' about the marigolds, thinkin' I was wastin' water by watering 'em. But I reckon nothin's a waste that reminds us of her, is it, Pa?"

Lucas smiled for real this time. "I reckon it isn't."

"I mean," Mark went on, "maybe it is kinda funny, two men livin' by themselves raisin' flowers just to look pretty, but then he doesn't know just how important they were to Ma, or how important she was to us."

Lucas nodded. "She did like having pretty things around her, your Ma. And she wanted pretty things around you and me, too. She thought it gentled a man a little to have some posies and fine china about." He gave a little chuckle. "And she sure thought I needed gentlin'."

Mark laughed, too.

"Of course, there never was anything made me as gentle as your Ma herself," Lucas added softly. He could still remember the feel of her in his arms, her body so soft and petite he had feared he'd break her. But his bigness made her feel safe, she'd said, and so he had held her, though the long nights when she'd struggled against the smallpox and there'd been nothing he could do to protect her, and later when the life was gone from her and there was nothing left to save.

Mark leaned against him, and Lucas bent down to pick him up. It wouldn't be much longer that his growing son would allow him to do this, he knew, but for now, there was some part of Margaret that he could still hold. He stood there a long time, till the shadows stretched long across the scrubby grass and the colors of the marigolds were reflected back against the sunset sky.


End file.
